I am buried alive within these four walls,
a one-bedroom tomb,
drowning in a never-ending sea of blue static
emitted from my television screen.
I haven't felt anything in days
except for the blessed narcotic caress
of loving ethanol arms that wrap me
up, safe from my own disaster.
Upstairs a girl of thirteen is tap-dancing
on my ceiling. She might as well be dancing
on my grave.